How He Changed Us
by The Necessity of Darkness
Summary: Sherlock never expected to be taking care of a child, especially not one involved with a case. He never expected how a kid might change his and John's relationship, either...(Eventual Johnlock)(Parent!lock)
1. He Was Heard Of

_New case for you, if you're interested.-GL_

 _Woman found dead in her flat, case reported by a neighbor. Looks like suicide, but I'd appreciate you coming down to investigate, tell us what you think.-GL_

 **Be there in twenty.-SH**

* * *

"John?"

"Yeah, Sherlock?" John responds, glancing up to his flatmate, then back down to his newspaper.

"Come; Lestrade has requested are assitance at a new crime scene. Says it looks like suicide, but with those bumbling idiots down in the Yard, I don't quite trust them to get anything right," the detective explains, shrugging into his Belstaff coat. The doctor sighs lightly before stretching out his cramped legs and folding up the newspaper, placing it on the arm of his chair.

"You could _request_ my assitance, you know, but alright; just give me a minute," he replies as he grasps his coat and shoves his arms into the sleeves. Gathering his mobile from the table, he stuffs it into his coat pocket and starts to stride over to Sherlock, whom is tapping his foot impatiently.

"Yeah, yeah, you prat, I know; hurry up," the doctor says, interrupting Sherlock's incoming scolding. Almost immediately after John's statement, the shorter man is in front of the steps, looking back at him. "There, I'm done."

Sherlock smiles in relief as he nods in acknowledgement, rushing towards the steps and taking them two at a time.

"Damn you and your long legs...," the detective hears the blogger mumble, and he can't help but smirk as he pushes the flat door open and walks onto the sidewalk.

" _Taxi_!" he yells, waving his hand minutely in the chilling air, and by the time John is beside him, a newly furbished taxi is pulling up to the curb. Sherlock beckons John in with a wave of his hand as he stumbles into the vehicle, clamoring to get to the left side of the seat as John shuffles in behind him.

As the soldier finally closes the door, the boffin huffs in annoyance, glimpsing the taxi driver in the rearview mirror before shifting his gaze to the snowy scenery outside. Swiftly, he pulls his phone from his pocket, pulling up the messaging app on autopilot as he presses Lestrade's contact.

 **Be there in ten** , he types out, ending the text with his signature **-SH**. Within moments, he receives a response, short enough to not annoy him even further.

 _See you then.-GL_

* * *

"Alright," Greg sighs, steps creaking as he leads the doctor and detective upstairs. "This morning, around 8:15 AM, the next door neighbor reported Claire Harris dead in her flat. She and Claire had been friends and scheduled an outing this morning at 8. The neighbor, Sam, I believe was her name, had a spare key and unlocked the door. You can...imagine what she walked in on..."

John grimaces, muttering,"...God...," As he continues up the stairs, Sherlock remaining silent in front of him. They finally reach the top of the steps as Greg plows into the flat, pushing open the door.

"Apparently, Sam said Claire's child was coming with them, her son, Hamish, and she couldn't find him anywhere," Lestrade continues, sorrow threatening to spill into what should be an easily said statement.

"A kid?" John breathes, and he suddenly looks a lot like paper; thin, white, _expendable_.

"Yeah," Greg confirms, turning his head to the detective, whom still decides to remain silent. Sherlock merely examines and counts the scuffs on the ceiling.

As Lestrade leads them to the bedroom, Sherlock continues to follow quietly behind, idly examining most of the rooms before sweeping the whole flat.

Then, they come into the back bedroom, and John externally winces, drawing his arms behind his back in an 'at ease' position. There the woman is, slumped against the end of her bed, a Browning handgun held limply in her hand. Blood is splattered on the wooden bed frame, staining the cherry color a dark brown.

The boffin cants his head, scouring every corner of the room from his position by the door, where Lestrade and John stand beside him. Sherlock's eyes dart down to the victim's hands, then he kneels beside the lax corpse, gloved hands prying at the cold flesh.

First, he takes the hand with the gun and tugs slightly on the firearm, drawing it away from her stiff fingers. Placing the weapon gently on the ground, he then takes the victim's hand in his own, prodding at the palm. He pulls out his magnifying glass, inspecting something before he yanks up Claire's sleeve, peering at the length of her arms and the red rawness covering them.

John and Greg continue standing, staring at him inquisitively as he lifts the victim's eyelids and checks closely for something. Sherlock pats down her body, hand freezing as it hits a lump in her coat pocket. Shoving his hand into the coat, he feels something all too familiar in his palm as he draws it out of the pocket's confines.

A baggie of cocaine.

" _God_...," Lestrade mumbles, and John suspects that he must be thinking of when Sherlock was...a bit not good. Sherlock knows Greg is thinking about when this was him sprawled on the couch, so close to an overdose, so many times, but he just places the bag on the bed and continues his examination.

Continuing his pat-down, Sherlock feels something else in the victim's jean pocket, and slips a hand inside to feel a folded piece of paper. He pulls his hand out, unfurling the paper as he glances to Lestrade and John, who are staring curiously at it.

 _He's coming. It must be about the drugs. You have to get my son. My number, call it. My son has my mobile. Call before-_

From after the word ' _before_ ', all Sherlock can see is the line of the ' _e_ ' extending to the edge of the page, spidery, scrawled, and sloppy. But the phone number is intact in the corner, an arrow trailing from the paragraph to indicate its position.

"What is it?" he hears Lestrade ask, and he glimpses John to see his silently questioning gaze on him. Yet, he doesn't answer, just continues staring at the paper, worry admittedly building in his gut.

 _The boy..._

He quickly pulls out his mobile, turns the phone on, then taps the number into the keypad, hitting the dial button. Waiting impatiently for the other end to pick up, he hears the doctor and D.I. frantically asking him why he looks so flustered, who he's calling, but he doesn't respond.

Scouring the room again, waiting, concerned, for the boy to alledgedly pick up, this time he notices, at the very edge of the room, a picture frame propped up against the dresser's mirror. A small boy, no older than 5, is sitting beside Claire, beaming and giggling at the camera. Hamish...

Suddenly, Sherlock sees blood on the young face, pooling in his mouth and dribbling down his neck. His eyes are dead, drowning him like the sea, like murky waves of water rolling over him.

He's reminded of the boy he almost couldn't save, the one Moriarty almost killed, all so he could determine how a painting was fake. His soft voice, counting down...

... **10**... **9**... **8**... **7**... **6**...

...the voice was feather-light in his ears...

He can hear it again.


	2. He Was Found

"... _Hello_...?" a soft voice whispers, hesitant, gentle, young in Sherlock's ears. "Are you here to help...?" he hears next, whispered across the line, tentative and fearful.

"Yes...what's your name?" Sherlock answers softly, getting the boy to answer a simple question, despite already knowing the answer. An easy way to make sure his thoughts are coherent.

"...H-H-Hamish...," he stutters, breathing shallowly and heavily in the boffin's intent ears. Minimal stuttering, probably from fear.

"Hi, Hamish. My name's Sherlock," the detective says, leaning against the dresser, heart pounding in his ears.

"Sh-Sirlock...?" he questions, not quite pronouncing the 'sh' sound properly. He hears the slight smile in the boy's voice as he says,"That sounds kind of silly..."

Sherlock holds his finger up to hush Greg, who's mouth is forming a question. "Hmm, yeah, a little...," he replies softly, trying to sound calm, comforting. Glancing around again, he asks,"Where are you? Are you safe?"

He only hears shallow, muffled breathing for a moment until he hears Hamish's soft voice again. "I'm...scared. Mummy told me to hide in the closet in my bedroom. She said to answer if someone called me, because she left me with her phone. Then, she left, and I heard a loud noise..."

"That was yesterday," Hamish continues, still breathing raggedly into the phone. Sherlock steps out of Claire's bedroom, seeing another smaller room painted sky blue.

Before he can ask the question again, looking for a more straight-forward answer, suddenly, he hears sobs on the other end as he continues to the room. "Shhh...it's alright, Hamish...just keep talking..."

The boy sniffles quietly. "I want Mummy...," he concedes, and Sherlock can hear the way his breath is hitching, almost like he's hyperventilating.

He can hear the words in the phone from behind the bedroom's closet door, muffled, but there nonetheless. And, for some odd reason, he feels so much weight lift off him as he kneels beside the closet doors with the soldier and D.I. behind him.

Slowly, he opens the doors, and there Hamish is, slumped against the wall and almost completely hidden under a pile of scattered clothing. His bright blue eyes peer up at the detective, pleading and fearful, so vulnerable, and Sherlock's never had someone look at him so _desperately_. The boy's limbs are shaking, his dark hair matted to his forehead with sweat.

Hamish's breath hitches momentarily, his body stiffening as Sherlock reaches for him, slender fingers unfurling. He soothes,"Shhh, it's alright, Hamish. It's me, Sherlock..."

The boy's face floods with recognition as he leans forward subconsciously, whimpering,"Sirlock...?" The detective nods faintly, sifting through the clothing as Hamish continues to stare at him.

Then, Hamish's arms are wound tightly around Sherlock, his small hands biting into the boffin's sides as he lifts the child up, cradling him in his arms. He feels splotches of liquid soaking into his tailored shirt, and he realizes, startled, that Hamish is crying into his chest.

The boy glances up, eyes red and puffy, and he curls his fingers into fists to rub tiredly at his eyes.

" _Where's my mummy_?" he asks, so quietly that Sherlock barely catches it. And even though he wants to, the detective can't possibly just bite out the answer in a cold manner, like he always does. This boy doesn't deserve that, but he's not used to anything else, so he awkwardly turns to face John. The doctor has a dull sheen to his eyes, and he glances up sadly. It's a look Sherlock almost reciprocates.

"Shhh...," he hushes, gently handing Hamish to John's outstretched arms. Lestrade seems dumbfounded for a moment at how gentle Sherlock is acting, how paternal, but the expression quickly morphs into concern for the child. As Hamish finally settles completely into the doctor's arms, Sherlock shivers. He finally sees what the boy is wearing.

 _A parka._ A _green_ one. Like _John_ on the nig-

 _No_...he can't think about that...John is alright now...so is the boy...

But no matter how much he tries to convince himself both John and Hamish are alright, he looks into the child's cerulean eyes, and they look so much like John's did on the night at the pool. There's sorrow and hopelessness trapped in the endless blue, a glint of fear and uncertainty, and it's almost _too much_. Too many concentrated emotions drifting through his almost too-blue eyes.

Shaking his head, as if physical force can rid him of the unwanted thoughts, he glances to Lestrade as he waves his hand, beckoning him into the living room.

"So...," Lestrade drawls uncomfortably, glancing through the door to look back at Hamish. "What do you make of it?" Sherlock takes a moment to dismiss Hamish's sobs and reminiscent coat, his familiar blue eyes, before shifting into his cold, calculating manner, once again.

"Claire Harris was a drug addict, indicated by the track marks, scars, along her arms. Her eyes were bloodshot, signs of prolonged cocaine use. Somehow, I'm not exactly sure yet, her drug use is linked to this case. I noticed a symbol on the drug baggie from before; maybe a company sign. A seal of business, perhaps. She definitely held the gun, and she pulled the trigger, but it wasn't suicide."

"How can you tell she shot herself?" Greg questions, not doubtfully, but curiously.

"Powder residue on her right hand, the one she shot with, her dominant one. The shot was through her mouth, and the angle and trajectory are perfect if she were to shoot herself. There are no signs of visible violence, or a scuffle. No wounds, bruises, cuts, strangulation, rashes, marks; nothing but the gun wound. No sign of an attacker."

"Now, the note in her pocket: she knew she was going to die yesterday, or at least that it was a possibility. It had her phone number on it to call her phone, which Hamish had. It didn't, however, explain who it was that was coming. There wasn't enough time for that. Something spooked her, maybe the man breaking in."

"I noticed also that her wallet was in her purse on the dining room table, and if she were going out with her friend, she would've brought money. Yet, I didn't see any in her bag. I also didn't fail to notice the lack of jewelry in her room."

"Also, the gun Claire shot herself with is her own gun, obvious by the fact that her initials are written in silver sharpie on the barrel. So, whomever broke in must have known she had a gun, and made her use that one."

"Ipso facto, the attacker must have been personal enough to know she had a gun, and personal enough that Claire knew it was he who was going to kill her."

"Well," Lestrade sighs, glancing to Hamish, who's eyes are fluttering shut. "The only question now is the motive; why'd he do it?"

"Well, he stole her valuables, but I doubt he came just for money. If he had, he would've just threatened her and been done with it, but he deliberately murdered her and made it look like suicide. He was personal, wanted cash, didn't kill the kid, even though he was personal enough to know he was around. Claire was a drug addict, the baggie had a symbol, he was being discrete, as if he's hiding someth-"

Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes light up and a slightly impressed grin spreads across his face. "Oh, clever, clever..."

"I suspect are attacker was a drug dealer, the one who dealt her the coke. They were personal, so I suspect a friend, of sorts. Business friend, acquaintance, something like that."

"Yes, but why would he kill her?" Lestrade questions, crossing his arms as John exits Hamish's bedroom. Sherlock glances to the exhausted boy, then to the soldier, before he locks his eyes back onto Lestrade's.

"Going by the fact that he stole her valuables, I suspect a business transaction gone wrong. She didn't pay with her money, so she paid with her life; well, and her money. Quite...barbaric...," Sherlock trails off, glancing to John again, Hamish still cradled, almost too tightly, in his arms. "Wait..."

The detective rushes back into the dining room, startling the boy as he grips the table frantically, eyes scanning the confines of Claire's pocketbook. His large hands sift through the decided junk, searching angrily.

"Here," he confirms with a smirk, pulling a card from Claire's wallet. It reads,'Jay Norris, fast, cheap service.' "The symbol is on this card, and there's a number. It must be her drug dealer's card; Jay Norris."

Sherlock turns to fully face Lestrade, triumphantly handing him the card as he confirms proudly,"No need to thank me. It isn't your fault you're so incompetent."

Greg just smiles at him as he nods and reluctantly goes, presumably, to tell the Yard.


End file.
